


Betting Blind

by scarletrebel



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-10 01:47:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20519942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletrebel/pseuds/scarletrebel
Summary: “That,” Drifter starts, pointing out of the ready room. “Was more than just you being in a bad mood, hotshot.”“So what? I got you your motes, didn’t I? Put on a show for impressionable Guardians. Why does it matter?”Drifter stands fully, takes an even breath. He shrugs his shoulders. “Call me curious, if you’ve gotta. Really wondering what it takes to ruffle a Guardian like you.”Avia laughs, a small bitter thing. “You know what kind of Guardian I am?”The question hangs. Avia’s chest rises and falls. Drifter knows the weight in a question like that, can read it all over the Awokens face.





	Betting Blind

**Author's Note:**

> a sort of sequel to [playing for keeps](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18008762) wherein drifter and avia have a much needed heart to heart. special and most wonderful thanks to my love [trystan](https://exordiumnoctis.tumblr.com/) for betaing and encouraging me to finish this when my anxiety said no <3

“Hey Drifter? Can we talk?”

The man in question turns his head over his shoulder, hand laid across an auto rifle he was showing to a Gambit regular. Grier’s face is soft, worried. There’s something etched into it that Drifter would call urgency, and he turns back to the Titan who is squaring Grier up something fierce.

“You want it? Double your motes this week, and we’ll talk.” He winks at the Guardian, who looks forlornly down at the rifle and nods, then walks off.

“Love a strong and silent type. Like to pretend they ain’t as eager as everyone else,” Drifter comments, turning and leaning on his work table. Grier smiles, and Drifter ignores his own upset at the way it only curls the corner of the Awoken’s lips. “What’s eatin’ ya?”

“I… Need to ask you something. Well, I need a favour. Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“It’s Avia.”

“Ah,” Drifter says around a smile. But then he watches Grier’s features, urgency turn to desperation, and this is a look he knows well. He asks quickly; “She alright?”

“Well… No, is the short answer.”

“The long answer?”

“I can’t tell you.”

Drifter snorts, crosses his arms over his chest. “Oh, and she gripes at me for having secrets.”

“This is different,” Grier takes a step closer. “She’s really upset.”

“And what can ol’ Drifter do about that? Half the time the girl tries to gut me for askin’ after her, then runs off with that blue lunatic at every opportunity.”

Grier winces slightly, sighing and looking down. “We were invited, Drifter. You know that.”

The surrender he finds in those orange eyes is downright frustrating. He’s thought to himself (on more than one occasion, sat across from the Warlock on the Derelict, lying next to him as he reads, tired eyes not catching onto the words) that maybe this is how Grier has managed to soften every hard-ass in the solar system. _Yourself included, _his mind always adds, and he can never place the voice.

Drifter makes a softer sound, lifting his hands, placating. “Still don’t know what you want _me_ to do, sunshine.”

“She’s going to be in Gambit today. Prime, specifically.”

“That right?”

Grier steps forward again. “Honestly, it’s a bit of an improvement, that she’s doing something instead of… Well. Brooding alone.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

Then Grier’s smile is whole and Drifter, the damn fool, feels vindicated. “Please, keep an eye on her?” The Warlock pleads. “For me? I – I would, I’d be there with her, you know I would but I promised Asher I’d help him collate some of his recent research on the Taken and if I try and make another excuse I think he’ll actually leave Io to tell me off.”

“For you?” and Drifters smile is lopsided, he leans forward as though telling Grier a salacious secret. “Really know how to play a man’s heart, don’tcha?”

Grier rolls his eyes, grinning despite it. He moves the final step to connect them, gathers Drifters hands in his own. He talks to the roped gauntlets, and Drifter catches with his own eye the slit in the material, a dagger and an accusation not so long ago.

“The last time she was this upset was when she found out The Queen was alive. I don’t – I don’t want to see her go through that again. Not over this. Not again.” He tilts his head up. “I know neither of you will admit it, but you’re a long way from where you were when you first met. You don’t have to do anything, I just need you to keep an eye on her, make sure she’s okay. Please?”

Drifter frowns, looks down at pale Awoken hands over his own. He lifts them to place a kiss on the knuckles, and damns his bleeding heart.

“Do what I can. If she stabs me again though, you and I are gonna have a problem.”

“She didn’t stab you the first time, technically,” Grier chides, squeezing. “And has she done anything since?”

“Feh. Still looks at me like she wants to. “

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t sass her as much as you do.”

“Me?” Drifter scoffs, incredulous. “_Me?_ I’m the one who’s sassy? Did you hit your head when you woke up this morning?”

Grier laughs, a hum through his chest and places a kiss on the corner of Drifters mouth. “I’ll see you later. Let me know if..?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Drifter waves a hand as Grier takes a step back. “If she transmats up to the Derelict and knocks my skull in, you’ll be the first to know.”

Grier thanks him, genuinely, in spite of the other man’s mirth. He waves, and is on his way, ducking so as to not hit the grate on the way out.

Drifter watches him go, picks a coin from the table absentmindedly and starts twirling it in between his fingers.

* * *

Avia isn’t just ‘in’ Gambit. She plays every match that day.

She doesn’t come to get bounties, doesn’t use a single synth. Drifter watches her from his perch in the ready room of the Derelict, face like a storm, that halo of red around her crown casting an ugly shadow across the features. The Shards of Galanor (_Hunters and their flair for naming, _Drifter thinks despairingly) are awful, bitten and rusted along her arms, suiting her now more than ever.

“Alright, mavericks,” his spiel falls off his tongue easy. She pays him no mind, this being the tenth match so far. “Ready to see what you’re fighting today?”

The coin says Cabal. The two Warlocks on Avia’s team turn to discuss tactics, the Titan blows a kiss to the opposite team, and all she does is reload her sniper rifle, steadying the weight of it in her hand.

“Transmats wired.”

The Guardians disappear onto Nessus, Cabal crawl out of the woodwork, and Drifter stands back as screens rise around his platform to show him the game. Some are holographic, some patched together by his own hand, sparks flying from wayward cables. He taps the side of one such that flickers tiredly as Avia goes flying past the camera, a blur of red and black, Breakneck making short work of a group of legionaries.

He watches her throw a handful of daggers at a centurion, and take a slug to her gut for her trouble. She rears up, Thunderlords electric dancing along the Cabal who screams as it dies.

Drifters not concerned.

He wasn’t concerned in match two, when she got a team wipe after brawling with a Titan that reminded Drifter of darker ages, darker times. He wasn’t concerned on game five when she shoved a Warlock out of the way of the portal (his stomach didn’t twist at the nastiness in the gesture, something so out of place for Avia to do). And he sure as hell wasn’t concerned when he spotted the knives of her blade barrage ignite the bark of a tree in the EDZ in the last game, long after she’d summoned her super and downed the primeval.

So, she’s particularly ruthless today, he thinks to himself. Gambit’s the best place for it. At least she’s here and not getting an earful from Shaxx in the Crucible. For the most part, she seems alright to him, in spite of whatever is clearly on her mind.

He’s not worried about it, hasn’t been wondering all day what’s finally managed to break the otherwise uptight demeanour she carries like a shield. It’s not his problem – she’s not his problem, he surmises, and he knows she’d prefer it that way too.

She hasn’t hurt herself, so he’s kept his promise to Grier. She’s fine.

_You know that’s not true, _the oh-so-helpful voice in his head supplies.

He bats it away, watches Avia’s team get the first invade. He seldom needs to make the announcement, because she’s in within seconds, levelling Thunderlord at her hip.

Some poor soul gets trapped in a corner on the Steppes with ten motes. Avia doesn’t even pick up what he drops, moving swiftly past the Vex gate and switching to her sniper rifle to tag another two across at the drill. Neither of them have motes, Drifter realises.

“Ten seconds and I pull you back,” Drifter says, voice inclined to a warning.

The Hunter doesn’t care. She just jumps high to try and find the last teammate, spots him decked in yellow by the bank and steadies her sniper to take him out as he battles blockers. She gets one hit, shield down, a body shot on account of the Titans quick drop behind a tree, and Drifter pulls her back.

Her swear is loud as the Taken energy subsides, landing back on her side.

“Cool it hotshot, you took out three opponents.”

“Oh, fuck off Drifter.”

His eyebrows raise into his hairline. It’s the first time she’s acknowledged him today.

As her teammates laugh nervously, his fingers twitch over the comm lines. Open a direct one to hers, quip light and easy: _Got a lot on your mind, hero? _and it wouldn’t even matter if she answered him. _Anything you wanna tell ol’ Drifter? _

The enemy team invades. The same Titan from the bank, feeling emboldened Drifter supposes in his sentry gear, spots Avia and makes a beeline.

“Oh, shit.” Drifter mutters, considering again opening that comm line. Instead, he makes his usual announcement, watches closely.

Avia sees him coming, and rushes forward. She dodges a shotgun spray, runs through another one to her shoulder and with a yell tackles the invader to the ground.

Surprised, the first punch lands easy, and the Titan yells. The following blows are anything but sloppy. The Titan tries to wrestle her off but Avia is relentless. Her fists land where they’re supposed to, Avia’s knuckles be damned, and Drifter watches one of her teammates stop their collection of motes to just. Stare.

_That what you gonna do, Drifter? Just watch?_

“Hell with it,” he pulls the invader back, the massive Titan form disappearing from out under Avia who makes a noise of confusion. She thumps the ground with her fist and stands up, eyes no doubt glaring at her teammate who jumps at the sharp turn of her head.

The Titan lands back on his side, voice indignant as he patches up to the Derelict. “What the _fuck, _Drifter, I still had ten seconds left—”

“Shut the hell up and finish the match.” Drifter shuts off all the comms except Avia’s, puts his head in his hands.

“Not going soft on me, are you?” Avia asks, and there’s a barely concealed venom in her voice, and as far as Drifters concerned it’s misdirected. The thought brings indignation to his throat and the words bubble up.

“Soft? No, sister, just tryin’ to make sure you don’t do something stupid and then blame _me _for it.”

She scoffs, seemingly no retort to throw at him.

The game passes without another incident, to Drifters purposefully and barely acknowledged relief. Avia remains a poorly concealed inferno, her teammates bend and bow to the moves she makes across the field and her anger is palpable, intensified even in the swirling black energy that clings to her every time she crosses the portal to the other side.

The game ends in a crescendo. Both sides get their Primevals up and it’s Avia versus whichever poor soul decides they want to invade to attempt an advantage. Avia’s side wins, just, and a collective sigh of relief is felt through everyone.

Drifter deposits the earnings of the Guardians into their inventories, says his closing words, and pulls Avia alone up to the Derelict whilst the transmat still has her code.

Her head whips around, blackened gear practically blending into the shadows around the ready room.

“Now I ain’t sayin’ that wasn’t a thrilling performance,” he leans on the railing as she takes her helmet off and scowls at him. “But if I’m being honest, you’re better when you ain’t full of piss and vinegar.”

“Shut up,” Avia chides, summoning her Ghost.

“Hey, hey! What in the _hell _has gotten into you?” Drifter cuts at the sight of her attempting to leave. Her blue eyes cast him a curious, if not furious glance. “What’s got you throwing tantrums and stomping around the place, huh?”

“And why the hell do _you _care?” Avia swings to face him, Ghost hovering at her shoulder.

“That,” Drifter starts, pointing out of the ready room. “Was more than just you being in a _bad mood, _hotshot.”

“So what? I got you your motes, didn’t I? Put on a show for impressionable Guardians. Why does it matter?”

Drifter stands fully, takes an even breath. He shrugs his shoulders. “Call me curious, if you’ve gotta. Really wondering what it takes to ruffle a Guardian like you.”

Avia laughs, a small bitter thing. “You know what kind of Guardian I am?”

The question hangs. Avia’s chest rises and falls. Drifter knows the weight in a question like that, can read it all over the Awokens face.

The answer to her question is yes. Instead of saying as much, Drifter flaps a hand dismissively and speaks more sure than he feels. “You know what? Fine. Make a mess of my arenas to get whatever’s off your chest and then scram, why dontcha.”

“You’re – _such _a bastard.” Avia spits.

“Then why are you sticking around? I ain’t stoppin’ ya from going anywhere.”

“Oh, _just_ like you to act like you give a shit for five seconds and then push people away when they won’t give you what you want,” her voice raises, the Ghost at her shoulder pops its shell as though worried. “And you have the nerve to drag me up here and then get all pissy when I don’t want to tell you my sad little life story?”

“Yer language ain’t usually so colourful.”

“Shut up, Drifter!” Avia’s voice echoes off of the walls. “You don’t know anything about me!”

“And whose fault is that?” He deflects, hands ringing into the railing. “Maybe I would if you gave me a damn chance!”

“I don’t have a single reason to trust you!” Is her counter, and it slices like shrapnel across his chest. “And whose fault is _that?!_”

A breath of disbelief escapes him, and it stalls his chest. _Of course_, he thinks solemnly. _She still thinks I’m some big bad, a monster come to take everything away. _

“You know what? Fine. You got me.”

She thins her lips at that, can’t quite hold his gaze. The silence falls on them, only the twitching of her Ghost and the creaking of the Derelict around them fills the air slowly, and eventually Drifter can’t stand the silence.

“Don’t let me keep you around, sister.” The words are small, cracked, an out for her even in spite of the tone.

“You were right, about him.”

He furrows his brow. “What?”

“I said, you were right.” Her voice is stronger, though it breaks slightly. “About Malphur.”

His grip tightens still. “What’d he do to ya?”

“No, nothing like that.” She starts, wipes hastily at her eyes and Drifter isn’t proud of how his heart lurches when one of the rusted shards gets too close to her skin. “He just – it’s just – you were right, okay? I thought I could trust him, I thought he was a good man, and he lied to me.”

A second passes. She smiles though it’s plastered by upset, deep, a wound yet to close. She outstretches her hands. “There. Happy?”

“Hell, sister.”

“You’re not getting more than that, so don’t a-ask.”

“Dammit, Avia.” He says. He takes a pad off his hip and hits a few buttons, and a platform in the middle of the ceiling moves down. “Get your ass up here.”

“I told you I’m not—”

“Telling me more than that, I heard ya.” The railing in front of him moves down and he beckons her over. She steps forward, warily, but moves to the main platform and towards the age-old table. Drifter stands behind one of the two chairs, ringing his hands on the back of it.

Avia stands behind the one opposite him, arms tightly wound across her middle. She looks younger like this, the light cast on her is softer now that she’s closer. He pushes down the bile in his throat reminding him of a poorly lit bar and her hands around a wound in her stomach.

“So. You found out about Vale, huh?”

Avia’s eyes widen. He raises his hands to placate her, rambles on. “Now, don’t give me that look. Yes, I knew. Yes, I didn’t tell you, but I had my reasons.”

“What reasons?”

“We have a deal, sister.” And he doesn’t miss the bitter roll of her eyes. “He’s, uh… More closely tied to Gambit than I’m willing to admit. Something tells me you might already know, or have your suspicions. Chances are he’s gunning to get it all out in the open soon, whether you like it or not.”

“I don’t want anything to do with him anymore.”

Drifter tilts his head at her, eyebrow raised. Avia stiffens in response, hands curling into fists. “I don’t.” She repeats.

“Sister, you won’t be able to help yourself, we both know that. Ain’t nothing wrong with a little curiosity.”

She frowns, looks away. “I think you have me confused with someone else.”

“And _I _think you and your bond-brother have more in common than just your awful taste in men.”

“Hey,” she chastises, but it dies on her tongue. “I – I can’t, Drifter. I told him to stay away from me. Rook’s in a million pieces over it.”

Drifter grunts. “Figures the cowboy would take it personally.”

“It’s more than that.” She pulls her hand through her hair, looks away to gather her thoughts. “Last word gave him direction. He was still mourning up until Shin – up until Malphur gave it to him. The original, no less, it had weight.”

“Yeah, try getting cracked over the head with one, that’ll tell you all the _weight_ it has.”

“Drifter,” Avia says, stern. “It might just be one big lie, but Rook, he’s… I’m worried about him.”

“And what about you?” He asks, moving around the chair.

“What about me?”

“So you come into my game, wreak havoc, scare off all the little Guardians collecting motes and then wanna play dumb, huh?”

Avia frowns, and her lip quivers.

Drifter thinks of Grier’s hands in his own however many hours ago, his request and how he can’t even convince himself that he was ever going to say no. He thinks of Rook’s temperament and thinly veiled threats, but the way he softens whenever Avia enters a room. He thinks of a human Titan nearly as old as he is but somehow not as bitter, and a Warlock, all carbonite edges, talking in hushed tones to Ada-1 about her worry falling on deaf ears.

“Are you okay?”

His question fills the air. Her chest rises and falls and another tear spills.

“Well. Rook got the sword, and I got the monster.”

He grimaces. “Thorn ain’t no monster,” and he adds, softer. “In the right hands.”

“Oh, you sound _just _like him.” Avia spits. She moves her hand up to wipe at her face and Drifter catches her wrist before the knifed forearm slices into her face. Her eyes are childlike, perhaps for the first time in her life.

“Hell, Avia, would you just,” and he pulls her forward, puts his hands gently on her shoulders to push her into the chair. “Change out of those gauntlets, would ya? You’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

Confusion crosses her features. She nods, and the telltale shimmer of a transmat turns the heavily bladed piece into something more modest. Then, she wipes at the tears that have fallen, and as Drifter sits he sees the way they pool under her chin and thinks that she can’t have stopped since she started.

“Would it help to know that I had to figure it out by myself?”

Avia squints her eyes, the incredulous look not hidden by the glassy tears. “Why would it?”

Drifter shrugs. “He _chose _to tell you. I’d bet glimmer there’s no one else he’s graced with that information. Nah, I nearly got my ass handed to me when I caught on.”

The comment brings a smile to her face, so he thinks back, settles himself into the story. “I was about three test-matches in for Gambit, started to have my suspicions. When I knew him as Dredgen Vale, he was an uptight bastard, held himself a certain way especially when he and Grey were preachin’ to the masses. He had it out with a Guardian who got cocky about tellin’ the Vanguard what we were up to and, uh, that ‘holier-than-thou’ preacher spine just pulled him tight and I knew. It was like a switch being flipped.”

She stares at him, brushes another tear track by her mouth. “Are you serious? You knew just because of his posture?”

“Other things, too. The way he held a gun, cadence of his voice switching, his handwriting.”

“His handwriting?”

“What, you think I got those books of Unmaking on accident?” Drifter laughs, a chuckle in his chest. “They’re the genuine artefact, sister. From Zyre Orsa and Teben Grey themselves.”

“You stole them?”

“Sure did. Fat lot of good they did for me.”

“And what, Shin Malphur just signed a check in front of you one day?”

“Look,” he leans forward, elbows on his thighs. “You live long enough, you get to tellin’ a lot about a man from the way he carries himself. If he’s old, tired, hungry. High strung, or even too relaxed. If he’s gonna be a dead weight or flighty. It’s kept me alive, sister, knowing when someones gonna pull a gun on me before they even do.”

She nods her head, mouth drawn into a line. “And the handwriting?”

“Well, you’d know. Guys a fan of letters.”

She looks away at that, fingers flexing and curling like she wants to fiddle with something, distract her rampant thoughts.

“Grier’s worried about you, you know.”

Her head darts back up, mouth pulled into a frown. Drifter goes on, placating. “He asked me to keep an eye on ya, knew you’d end up in Prime. For what it’s worth, I’m glad he did.”

“I thought—” A bitter laugh escapes her. “I thought because Shin _fucking _Malphur was sending me letters and calling me a beacon of hope that it meant I was a good person. That I’d… I don’t know, finally made it. That I wasn’t just pretending anymore, convincing everyone I was something I’m not.”

Drifter nods, eyes cast down. “He’s got plenty of Guardians with that shit, sister. Ain’t just you.”

“But I should have _known, _Drifter. I shouldn’t have let myself get so caught up in the legend – the one time, the _one _time I actually believe, and what does it tell me? That I’m no hero, and neither is he.”

Drifter raises an eyebrow. “You want that? To be a hero?”

“I have to be.”

“No, Avia. I ain’t your Vanguard. It’s just us. No Malphur-wannabe boyfriend, no impressionable brother or dads opinion to worry about, just you and me.” The words catch behind his teeth but he forces them out. “One survivor, one _runner, _to another.”

She pulls herself up then, takes a deep shaky breath. “He talked a lot about shades of grey. Not walking wholly in the Light or Dark, just. Being in the middle.”

“I’d say that suits you, sure.”

“But I don’t – I don’t want _his _grey area.” Avia furrow her brow. “No, I don’t want to have to put on a mask to do what I feel is right, I just. I just want to…”

“You just want to _do _what you feel is right, right?”

She nods her head. “No matter which side it’s on.”

“Freedom.”

“Yeah,” she sighs, half a laugh. “Yeah.”

“Hell sister, you know I’m the last person who’s gonna sing his praises,” Drifter starts, leaning forward. “But for what it’s worth? He’s like us.”

That softens her. _She already knows, _he figures, but he goes on. “Both of you got this chip on your shoulder about who you were and what you’ve done, what other people have done to you. I don’t know a lot about what he was up to after Yor, but I can gather that he was bitter. About what, I don’t know, but hell maybe he still is after all this damn time. That’s where you’re at, Avia. And you gotta let it go or it’ll eat you alive.”

“Like you do?” She asks, tone dipped in accusation.

“I _try _to,” is his reply, just as sharp. “Some people are in the habit of not lettin’ me forget.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“I know that,” he says, stern. “But I keep tellin’ you I’m not that person, not anymore. And you keep _sayin’_ that you’re not that girl from the Reef, but I don’t think you believe it. And you _should, _the scrappy little punk who wandered into my bar? She’s gone. And that ain’t a bad thing.”

“But who the hell am I now?” Avia bites, and as soon as the words leave her mouth she seems to regret it. She curls her arms around herself a little tighter. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

His exhale is deep, and it rings hollow in his gut just how familiar it is, the turmoil accompanied with her words.

“Sorry Avia, but I can’t tell ya.” He says.

Avia’s soft blue eyes land on him, and Drifter can only describe the look on her face as one to rival any Warlock or Cryptarch. Selfishly, he thinks to himself that maybe this is the deepest she’s ever peered into him since the Traveler decided her time wasn’t up. Like maybe she’s seeing behind the bravado for reasons other than plain suspicion. (Maybe that’s wishful thinking on his part, a habit he can’t kick though he’s tried.)

“No, that’s… I think I needed to hear that.”

And damn the Vanguard, he thinks. Screw their dogma and their rules and their beliefs, for all the difference there is in those two words. Damn the Traveler and it’s penchant for picking broken things that should be left well enough alone, damn Shin Malphur’s self-righteous crusade tearing through people who are desperate to prove something that they can’t even articulate.

She sniffles and breathes deeply, unfurling herself slightly. Just this once, he doesn’t have anything to say.

Avia shuffles, looks away and her eyes land on cards strewn about his table. She laughs, a breath through her nose. “Never thought I’d say it but, I miss not being able to tell when you were being genuine.”

He scratches his chin. “Could go back to that, if you wanted.”

“No,” she frowns, shakes her head. “No. It’s taken long enough.”

He follows her gaze to the table, not remembering the outcome of the game laid out there. He’d won, of course, but he can’t remember the opposition’ some emboldened Dredgen or plucky Guardian no doubt. Regardless, he finds himself wandering through the same reflection she no doubt is, once again can’t find himself remembering how long ago it’s been, be it a matter of weeks or months.

“You know, I think we agree sister.”

* * *

_Epilogue_

“You got a sec?”

Drifter pulls his gaze from the swirling innards of the mote bank, to turn his head in the direction of Rooks voice. He pushes off the railing to meet eyes as brown as his own when he turns.

“Sure thing, hotshot.”

A group of Guardians make a racket as they walk past from the Annex landing pad. Rook doesn’t startle, but he does looks over his shoulder, with all the observation of a scout. They talk loudly, jovially, and though they slow down past the Drifters haunt, they don’t turn into it. Drifter takes the time to inspect Rooks holster, and sure enough, Ace of Spades sits in the leather instead of another, older piece of iron.

“Suits you better, you know.”

“What?” Rook whips his head back around as the Guardians move on.

“Said, what can I do you for?” Drifter outstretches his hands. “You finally got over yourself? Gonna check out my little Gambit Prime?”

“Not this time.” Rook says, eyeing Drifter warily. “Wanted to say thanks.”

Drifter can’t help the eyebrow raise. “Sure. You’re welcome. Care to remind me what I did?”

Rook sighs, aggravated, and takes a step forward. Drifter vehemently ignores the born-of-habit twinge of fear he remembers from meetings with the Renegade, doesn’t stop to ponder the similarities. “Just listen to me, alright? Whatever you said to Avia’s really helped.”

A wall comes down, briefly, comfortably. Drifter rights himself on his feet, draws himself up just a little bit. “Glad to hear it.”

“Look, I,” and Rook bites his lip, shifts from foot to foot. “I ain’t been dealing with it properly either. And I regret that, I do. So thanks. Sincerely.”

Drifter puts a hand on his chest. “Bottom of my heart, cowboy. Don’t mention it. Just glad to hear she’s doin’ alright.”

Rook nods his head, looks away.

Drifter throws a coin in the air, catches it between his knuckles. “You ever played Mortimer?”

Rook crinkles his nose, fixes Drifter with an incredulous look. “The card game? What kinda Hunter do you think I am?”

Drifter smiles but raises his hands in mock surrender. “Forgive me, brother. Figured from the way Avia plays the fella who taught her might be... Rusty.”

“Oh, watch it old man,” the corner of Rooks mouth curls into a smile. “You ain’t played against me yet.”

Drifter shrugs good naturedly. “You got the Derelicts number, if you wanna defend your girls pride.”

Rook laughs, jovial shock across his features. “You realise she’d have both our asses if she heard you say that, right?”

“She ain’t here, slick. Whaddya say?”

Rook smiles tightly, and Drifter chooses to see the mirth in it.

“I say you’re on.”


End file.
